He Who Was Most Dear
by Avery Likelytale
Summary: Fear the hot animeness of Durza! GALBATORIX x DURZA


**He Who Was Most Dear**

**By:** Avery Likelytale. But you can call me Av. Or Avvy.

**Notes:** HA HA HA. You heard me. It's GALBATORIX x DURZA! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.

No, really. That's all I can say.

**Warnings:** Well. It's Galbatorix x Durza. Don't worry, there will probably not be sex (in this story at least). Also, please don't be scared of my characterizations of Galbatorix, Durza and-slash-or Carsaib. It's not like they had much character in the first place...

**Disclaimer:** Eragon, Eldest, Inheritance and all characters, places, et. al. do/does not belong to Av Likelytale. Instead, they/it belong(s) to Christopher Paolini, Knopf, Random House, and any other person/entity/organization/molecule that makes money off of them/it LEGALLY. Thank you.

Finally--

_**IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, DON'T FRIDGIN' READ IT!**_

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**1. Back**

_"What are you doing, you pathetic, nasty _human

_He looked up, but saw nothing but blackness, darkness. All around, stretching infinitely and forever was the pure, unbroken darkness. There was no place where the voice could have come from. _

_"Well? I asked you a question." _

_"You..." He looked up again. He couldn't pinpoint where exactly the voice was coming from--indeed, it seemed to echo from the very fabric of the darkness itself. "Are you talking to me?" _

_A low, rough chuckle filled the air. "Who else is there to talk to, human?" _

_He glanced around fearfully, suddenly aware that he couldn't move. He was lying on his back on the surface of the darkness, but the only part of his body that would respond were his eyes (and his mouth, he supposed). His legs--his arms--even his neck--seemed to be bound by invisible cords. _

_He felt like a hostage in his own body. _

_"Who are you?" he said, and he couldn't help the tremble that crept into his voice. _

_"Stupid human," grumbled the Voice, which was what he decided to call it. The Voice. With a capital "V". _

_"Why are you talking to me? Who are you? Why don't you answer my questions?" _

_"You stupid human," the Voice repeated, and he imagined that it was leering down at him. "I have a question of myself for you--why do _you _have so many questions, hmm? In fact, you're in no position to be interrogating _me_, you lousy, nasty, weak little _human

_The last word came out hatefully, with force and spite, and he trembled at the sheer disgust and loathing in the Voice's voice. If the Voice had a human body, he imagined it would have been spitting on him by this point. _

_"Oh, look how scared the poor little human looks," the Voice sneered. "Yes, that's right, you better be scared of me--once I can figure out how to hurt you--once I can--" _

_He never got to hear what the Voice was going to say next, because suddenly the darkness folded into itself and shattered, and he was thrown into nothingness that was neither darkness nor light--and for one brief moment he thought that he would be trapped here, in the nothingness, forever--before a stab of light broke through and blinded him, flooding his world with an explosion of pure brilliance. _

* * *

Carsaib awoke screaming. 

Several figures converged over him, and one of them--a slim woman--pushed him back down onto the bed; or rather, the little straw pallet he had been lying on.

"Oh, you poor child," the woman said soothingly, applying a damp cloth to Carsaib's forehead. Carsaib winced, but remained still, blinking blearily. The face of the woman leaning above him was blurry, as were the figures surrounding the woman. "You poor child," she repeated again.

"Stop it, Rolana," said one of the figures. Carsaib blinked again, and he came into focus--a slightly short but wide-shouldered man with a monstruous beard. "He's no child. He looks twenty, at the very least."

"That's a child by my standards, then," the woman--Rolana?--retaliated. She turned back around and stroked Carsaib's hair back. "Are you feeling all right?"

Carsaib didn't trust himself to speak, so he merely nodded--which sent a jolt of slicing pain down his chest. He swore loudly.

"Don't over-exert yourself, please!" Rolana said quickly, putting her hand over Carsaib's chest. Carsaib pried her hand away, then glanced very slightly down at himself, placing a hand on where the pain had been.

His shirt had been removed, but his entire chest was covered with a layer of fresh bandages. Still staring, he tried lifting away one of the bandages, but Rolana swatted his hand away.

"No, no, you have to recover," said Rolana. "Now, lie down and rest. Would you like something to drink?"

Carsaib stared blankly at Rolana, suddenly feeling weak. "What...what happened to me?" His voice came out scratchy and hoarse, as if he hadn't used it for a long time.

Rolana looked sadly at Carsaib, her hand still resting on his forehead. "We are...a traveling acting troupe," she began, and Carsaib realized, for the first time, that the surface he was lying on was bouncing up and down, that he was in a small, single room, and that the walls of the room were rattling frighteningly. They were in a moving wagon.

"We were crossing the Hadarac Desert after putting on a few shows in the east when we found you," Rolana went on. "You were...in a pitiful state. You were half-dead, practically unconscious, but still crawling through the hot sand--and bleeding heavily from your chest. We think it was a stab wound," she said, and she glanced up at the bearded man, seemingly for assurance. He merely nodded.

"We took you on board and did our best to heal you--I know a little bit about medicine, you see--and, well, you've been asleep for five weeks while we've been traveling for our...next show."

"I see," Carsaib said slowly. So he'd been half-dead...but why? Strange, how he couldn't remember. In fact, he realized with growing alarm, he couldn't remember practically _anything_ about himself. His life--none of it came to mind. When he tried reaching for it, he found nothing but a large blank. _Why couldn't he remember?_

"What's your name, child?" Rolana's voice cut through his self-induced panic, and Carsaib cast a slight glance over at the woman, blinking at the sudden question.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Rolana said quickly. "We ought to introduce ourselves first, shouldn't we? Well, this is Trudi--" She pointed at a young woman with straggly blonde hair, who curtsied. "--Betrice--that's Trudi's twin sister--" This was the woman standing next to Trudi, who looked almost identical to said Trudi. "--Loisa--" She indicated a little girl, who couldn't have been more than ten years old, and who smiled. "--Bulstir--he's our troupe leader--" It was the big, bearded man, who grunted in affirmation. "--Uven--who's driving--" She gestured toward the front of the wagon, where a man about Carsaib's age sat. He turned around and gave the group a slight wave. "--Engid--" A very tall, serious-looking man, who was kneeling while the others were standing. "--and I'm Rolana. We all form the Mountain Minstrels," she finished, pointing at herself.

"The best acting troupe on both sides of Hadarac!" added Trudi, with a loud giggle.

"Don't be silly," Bulstir said. "We're small, and we're poor. I only hope our next show will get us enough money to get by."

"Don't be a soggy blankie!" cackled Betrice. Trudi cackled as well. Bulstir merely glared at them.

"I'm...Carsaib," Carsaib said slowly.

"Well, it's a good thing you're all right, Carsaib," Rolana said, with a motherly smile. "Does it hurt?"

Carsaib closed his eyes and murmured, "No," but there _was_ a dull, throbbing pain coming from his chest. _A stab wound, eh?_ But who could have stabbed him?

"Where are we going?" he asked, after a brief pause.

"Uru'baen," Bulstir said simply.

"_Uru'baen?_" Carsaib jerked up, then let out a loud yell as pain blasted through his chest. Instantly, Rolana and Bulstir shoved him back down, and Carsaib breathed heavily as the waves of pain clawed through his body.

"Hey, hey, quiet down, okay?" Uven called at them over his shoulder.

"Carsaib!" Rolana cried, ignoring Uven. "Are you all right?"

"Y-yeah...," Carsaib said weakly, pressing his hand to his chest. "I think so..."

Both Trudi and Betrice suddenly let out loud shrieks, clinging to each other and pointing at Carsaib wildly. Carsaib turned his head and stared at them, but the source of their panic became clear in a flash--as he turned, he felt something wet against his skin, and knew that his wound was bleeding.

"Goodly gods!" screamed Betrice.

"Godly goods!" screamed Trudi.

"You're _bleeding_ ewww!" they both screamed in unison.

"Hey, hey, what'd I say about quiet?" Uven said, but once again everyone ignored him.

"Calm down, Carsaib--I think it'd be good if you just rested, don't move," Rolana said, her voice shaking as she began rebandaging Carsaib's wounds. Carsaib watched with morbid fascination as she revealed the bloody scar--it'd certainly left a scar, he thought. A thick black and red line, about six inches long, ran across his left breast, and was surrounded by a mass of dried blood. Blood was currently trickling from an opening at the bottom of the scar.

"Uru'baen," Carsaib repeated, casting a glance over at Bulstir. "The capital?"

"That's right," Bulstir said.

"Why on earth would you go _there_?"

Bulstir glanced away. "I don't like the Empire either, mind you, and I'm deathly scared of the place. But we haven't a choice. The king summoned us to perform for him, so we will. Besides," he added with a shrug, "maybe we'll make some good money. Who knows?"

"Uru'baen," Carsaib said quietly, more to himself than anything. He ignored Rolana as she wiped the blood with a cold rag, trying to grasp for what made Uru'baen so important. There was something about Uru'baen--more than it just being the capital of the Empire--there was something that had to do with his forgotten memories in Uru'baen...

"How far are we from getting there?" Carsaib asked Bulstir.

"A day," Bulstir said.

"Just a day?" Carsaib said, quickly wrestling away the urge to jump up with surprise again.

"Mm," Bulstir said. "We'll be performing one of the prime love stories of all time, 'A Tragedy of Souls', by the brilliant elf Finwe. It's a touching, exquisite tale, about Merenwen, an elven maid mourning the loss of her beloved Naef, when she meets a human soldier named Al'wion. The two begin a desparate but beautiful romance, which ends unhappily after Al'wion becomes sick and dies, and Merenwen takes her own life. It is a wonderful story written by the most famous elven playwright of all time. Hmf. That's all," said Bulstir, and he sounded more like his gruff self again as he tugged on the bottom of his black beard.

"Uven's playing Al'wion," giggled Trudi. "And me and Bee are both going to play Merenwen!"

"After all, two Merry Elves are better than one, don't you agree, Carsy?" said Betrice, dropping down by Carsaib's side and grinning.

"Sure," Carsaib said, a little unnerved by the odd nickname. _Carsy?_

"Please leave him alone, you two," said Rolana tiredly, as she finished wrapping Carsaib with fresh bandages. "He's exhausted, and he needs rest. Right?" She gave Carsaib a pat on the chest--the uninjured side--and gently ran a hand through his hair.

The simple gesture brought a flood of emotion and tangled memories into Carsaib's mind--which almost entirely vanished as soon as they had come. But still, Carsaib was left with the numb feeling that he'd discovered something important--there had been someone--_someone who had once touched his hair like this..._

But it was gone now, and with frustration, Carsaib slumped down onto the pallet, and the only sensation that was left was the dull throbbing of his wounds.

_Uru'baen..._

It was an infuriating feeling, this knowing that something was out there, that if only he could reach a little further, he'd touch it...and yet, he was unable to. He simply couldn't. Whatever shreds were left of his memory were too far away, too distant...

He closed his eyes, and tried briefly to sleep, but the bumping up-and-down motion of the wagon was too much (as was the infernal rattling of the walls), and after a few minutes, he gave up and merely lay on the pallet, gazing at the ceiling--which had many cracks on it, along with clothes, food, and pots dangling on strings from it.

Then, suddenly, he felt a vague realization flit into his mind, and tried sitting upright again before deciding that was a bad idea. It had been a brief realization, nothing much, but it was still an epiphany for him.

"The king," he said quickly, turning toward Bulstir, who was carving something out of a small chunk of wood. Bulstir's knife slipped and he mumbled a curse, before tossing the wood out of the tiny barred window in the back.

"Hmm?" Bulstir said.

"The king," Carsaib repeated. "You said you were putting on this play for the king?"

"That's right," Bulstir said. "He actually _invited_ us to come and put the play on for him, which was a bit strange--we're a small acting troupe and we mostly do shows east of the Hadarac Desert, but for some reason..."

He left the sentence hanging, but Carsaib didn't care. "You mean...the king will be there in the audience? Watching?"

"I suppose. Why?" Bulstir said, reaching for a new chunk of wood--there was a small pile of wood chunks in the corner, for some strange reason.

"The king's one scary fellow!" Trudi announced through the curtain that partly divided the wagon room. "You tell him he's stepping on your toe, and he'll have your head chopped off. Seriously! Some poor citizen told Galby that he was stepping on his toe, and off went his head! Scary dude. We all kind of live in fear of him."

Carsaib gazed at the ceiling. "He won't...chop my head off. He wouldn't."

"You're delusionoid!" Betrice declared, also through the curtain. "Rolana, isn't he delusionoid? Those wounds must've really gotten up there in his head."

"You just rest, Carsaib," Rolana said. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"No," Carsaib said, closing his eyes once more. For some reason...he had received the feeling that if he met the king, saw the king..._his memories might return_. For some reason--some wild, insane, nonsensical reason--he felt as if the king had been important to him in some way. That the king had been a figure in his past...

But who?

He placed a hand up to his head, over his eyes. That, hopefully, would be a question that would be answered soon. After all, Uru'baen...and the king...were only a day away.

...and if that wasn't the answer to his past, then, Carsaib thought, nothing was.

He slept.

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**Notes:** So concludes chapter one. Sorry for those people looking for hot man-lovin' instead of annoying OCs. I understand your pain! Don't worry, the slash'll come...I think. Hardee hardee har. 

To tell you people the truth, I actually don't like Inheritance (like, not at all). But I like the bad guys. Durza's my favorite character. I like Murtagh too. Ramble ramble ramble. ALSO...I can't write fancy archaic (coughroboticcough) dialogue like Paolini, so all of the dialogue in this story is going to be how I write dialogue, stylistically...sorry...?

Finally...I APOLOGIZE TO EVERYONE WHO IS A FAN OF MY OTHER UNFINISHED STORIES. I AM A LAZY GUT-HEAD AND YOU CAN THROW BANANAS AT MY GENITALS. SERIOUSLY. I'M SO SORRY.

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_PS: Oh ya...before I forget...REVIEW YOU MONKEYS!_


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